Eye of the Hurricane
by KarraCaz
Summary: Marooned on an unexplored planet, the Enterprise landing party struggle to survive against increasing odds. Will they get rescued in time?
1. Chapter 1

Title: Eye of the Hurricane

Author: KarraCaz

Series: TOS: Spock, McCoy, Kirk, plus other startrek and non-series characters.

Disclaimer: Startrek is the property of Paramount/Viacom. I merely play with the characters for my pleasure and not for any profit.

Follows on loosely from Ghost in the Machine

PG13 for the most part but the story does contain m/m sexual references.

Chapter 1:

I have been running from the truth,

I have been running since my youth,

Time to end this running…

o0o

"Spock, you listening to me?"

Jerked abruptly out of his thoughts Spock straightened from his examination of the shuttle's exterior inspection panel. His breath misted in the wintry air as he focused on McCoy. "I beg pardon, Doctor McCoy. You were saying…?"

McCoy's eyes, sharper than one of his own laser scalpels continued to inspect the Vulcan. Muffled up in a hooded, environmental jacket, with a length of cloth wound about his forehead and ears, extra protection against the cold, the First Officer had a vaguely roguish air.

"For the third time, I asked if you'd come up with anything. You've been staring at that tricorder screen for the last five minutes. Are those oversized, jackrabbit ears of yours frostbitten by any chance? Or maybe… you're just in love."

At the remark, the dark brows, already glistening with hoarfrost, twitched slightly beneath the covering headband. Apparently quite aware of the doctor's intention to antagonise him, the First Officer regarded McCoy with almost childlike innocence.

"My ears are within the normal size range for Vulcans, I believe, Doctor McCoy. Moreover, while the cold is debilitating, as far as I am aware, it has not altered the efficiency of my hearing."

"Answer the question, Godammit." McCoy returned brusquely. "Are we marooned here – wherever _here _is – or not?"

The First Officer never kept score of either his victories or defeats in the constant battle of wits McCoy and he fought. However, in this instance he became conscious of a distinct, if somewhat disturbing, satisfaction at McCoy's evident chagrin. He replied without any attempt to buffer the truth.

"Affirmative, the shuttle is quite inoperative. As you can see, the chassis has suffered considerable damage. It will not fly again without substantial repair work. A task we are ill-equipped to accomplish at this time."

He transferred his attention back to the instrument he held in front of him.

"Your assumption about the flora and fauna also appears correct. The vegetation and animal life on this world is inimical to Humans."

"My _analysis_ is correct, I think you mean."

Spock ceded the point, "Whatever you wish, Doctor. I have neither the inclination nor the time to debate semantics with you at the moment."

He continued with his report as if uninterrupted. "Without dietary augmentation, you will find it difficult to digest enough proteins to sustain life. Moreover, even with the necessary amino acids and peptides, prolonged ingestion will result in grave side effects."

McCoy nodded. He blew on his hands to warm them, already quite aware of Spock's information. He pulled up the collar of the heavy jacket, nestling his chin into the warmth of his own body heat. His penetrating look cooler than the atmosphere he gazed at the First Officer. Their relationship, always on the tempestuous side, had undergone a noticeable decline in recent weeks. There was no longer anything even remotely affable in their verbal fencing. "Inimical to Humans maybe but you'rea Vulcan. According to my reckoning, that makes _you_ immune."

"My metabolism as you well know, while similar to yours, is in effect divergent enough to protect me from the more unpleasant physical symptoms. So yes, I am immune, Doctor McCoy. On the other hand, you may have observed this particular landmass has undergone a climatic shift. It is currently in the grip of a modest ice age." For emphasis, Spock prodded the ground with the heel of his boot. Rock-hard, he made no impression on the earth whatsoever. "There will be few, if any, fruits, cereals, edible nuts or roots that I may eat. I am, therefore, as reliant on the shuttles rations as either you, Mr. Scott, Ensign Chekov or the Captain."

"Well isn't that a damn shame," McCoy retorted tartly. "So, unless the Enterprise finds us within six weeks or maybe eight if we eke out what supplies we have, we're all dead men. Is that what you're saying, Spock? That's a pretty bleak picture you're painting – even for you."

"I am merely presenting you with the facts, Doctor. How you interpret them is your own affair." The First Officer eyed McCoy with a conspicuous lack of expression before adding, "Although, you may wish to bear in mind that the chances of the Enterprise finding us at all are extremely slim. The plasma storm we encountered, forced us far from our designated route."

"Well life just keeps getting better and better."

McCoy switched his glare from Spock to where Jim Kirk and young Chekov were cutting off the bare lower branches of a few squat trees preparatory to making a fire for the evening. Spock followed McCoy's gaze, eyes drawn as if by magnetic attraction across the small clearing.

"So, what happened to there are always possibilities?"

Spock tore his gaze away from Kirk and Chekov, fixed his wandering attention back on McCoy. "On that point I … may have been in error."

"Oh, that's just dandy." McCoy murmured. "Now that we need one, you're suddenly all out of logical solutions."

"I believe a miracle is more in keeping with our present situation. A phenomenon that falls more within your province than mine."

"I'm a doctor not a magician, Spock. Scotty's the one who pulls the proverbial rabbit out of the hat just this side of total destruction."

"Agreed, our salvation may depend on Chief Scott's undoubted acumen in that area. However, in the meantime…" He turned away, communing with his tricorder once more, pointedly signalling the conversation at an end.

McCoy had other ideas. "You want to know something, Spock?"

"You have something further to report, Doctor?" Spock lowered the instrument once more. Prior acquaintance had taught him that he would not be left alone until McCoy made known the true aim of the exchange. "Very well, continue if you must."

The chief surgeon rubbed a thumb across his bottom lip before he plunged on, his voice characteristically gruff. "Although I hate to admit it, you have me confused, Spock."

He studied the Vulcan with a penetrating intensity that fleetingly brought Sarek to Spock's mind.

Head tilted, the First Officer regarded the doctor steadily in return. "Not an entirely novel occurrence I would presume, judging from past experience."

"Oh, that's good. Ho, ho, very funny. Excuse me, while I split my sides laughing." McCoy turned his back to the biting wind. He leaned heavily against the shuttle's side and hunched further into his coat. "You've been avoidin' me lately. I want to know why."

"You are mistaken, Doctor."

"No, I don't think so. You heard that gossip 'bout you and Jim. That's when this cold-shoulder treatment began. Don't deny it, Spock. You figure maybe I had a hand in starting the rumours."

McCoy, like nearly everyone else on board the Enterprise, had taken note of the irreverent chitchat on the ships all-talk channel that linked Jim and Spock together as lovers. He also recognised Spock's acute aversion to any intrusion into what he considered his _personal affairs_. Pun most definitely intended, he thought caustically. To have his innermost emotions revealed publicly was, McCoy knew, anathema to the Vulcan, particularly since he had always denied any such feelings existed.

Perhaps if the rumours had, indeed, been false, Spock might have weathered the firestorm of gossip and innuendo that swept through the ship. However, while on Sassandran, in a last ditch effort to save Kirk, who had been kidnapped by a semi-immortal life form, Spock had laid bare the profound attachment he felt for his Captain. He had named Kirk his _t'hy'la_, which, in the _Vulkhanir _tongue, had several connotations. The word could mean either brother or a life-long friend – or, in the context Spock used it, - a soul mate. The confession had exposed his terrible vulnerability, revealing a chink in the armour he had skilfully built around himself over so many years.

Ship's tittle-tattle had been circulating unbeknownst to the First Officer for weeks but when it finally reached those sharp ears, the Vulcan had countered the gossip by withdrawing into self-imposed isolation. Neither McCoy nor Jim had escaped the big freeze. Spock treated the captain and chief surgeon with the same cool detachment he now accorded everyone.

_At least his consistency can't be faulted._ McCoy acknowledged with exasperation. _It's one for all and good for nothing._

"I have no time for this, Doctor."

"Blessed is he who expects nothing from a Vulcan for he shall not be disappointed," McCoy grumbled, his jaw bunched.

_I risk my sanity for the arrogant, green-blooded bastard, let him inside my head, wise to every godamned private thought and feeling I ever had. He knows me better than I know myself – and still he doesn't trust me._ "Make time, Spock."

If McCoy's disdain offended the First Officer, it did not show on his face. Without moving a single muscle or varying his tone of voice one iota, Spock communicated acute distaste.

_How in hell does he do that?_

"Doctor, there is a Vulcan proverb that you might find edifying. It is very ancient but, in your case, still holds true."

"Go ahead, I'm all ears." McCoy pulled at his right lobe, eyes on the First Officer's impromptu cover-up. "Or should that be your line?"

"The original maxim is in Old Vulcan." Spock continued smoothly, treating McCoy's remark with the contempt he obviously thought it deserved. "The saying goes: _Mrait orual r'ofehr mneh'tsrev ikahr. Ur sa'askun hunaa I'khayr koh inshiah…" _

"Which means what? Even my senceiver can't translate that mouthful of Vulcan gobble-de-gook."

Spock's eyes shuttered briefly, before he continued without a trace of humour or inner warmth. "I quote: _It is by no means shameful in having nothing of worth to say_ – _unless_, Doctor McCoy, _one continually insists on saying it_. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a report to complete."

McCoy was loath to take the hint, broad though it was. With the devil still sitting on his shoulder, he set about rattling the bars of Spock's cage in a way he had discovered worked remarkably well. As the First Officer scrutinized his tricorder apparently uninterested in the doctors continued hard feelings, McCoy fished out the remote sensor from his medikit and played it over the Vulcan's torso.

Spock tautened immediately at the swift beep, beep of the tiny instrument. He regarded the chief surgeon with impassive coldness, mounting antipathy cloaked behind an impenetrable mask. "Why are you examining me, Doctor McCoy? You are aware I did not suffer any injury in the crash. Nor am I unwell."

"Oh you're sick all right, you just aren't admitting to it."

"I assure you I am quite healthy."

McCoy glanced over at Jim and Chekov again as the boy laughed, enjoying the Captain's company. Spock did not react at all.

Lowering his voice so only the First Officer could hear him, McCoy asked shortly, "Then why, for God's sake, are you still nursing that wounded Vulcan pride of yours? You're acting as if you have a phaser pistol rammed sideways up your ass, and on full stun, instead of a heart complaint that's been common among Humans since time immemorial. Spock, _loving_ someone is neither shameful nor life threatening. Like pi, it's natural, incredibly irrational maybe, but very important. Neither Jim nor I started the gossip you've heard. Only the Good Lord knows why but the crew are concerned about you. Godammit, we all get talked about if we're eccentric, peculiar, or fascinating enough; and you certainly fit the first two, if not all three. At least, you're the strangest damn fish on the Enterprise I've yet to come across …"

Spock inclined his head in courteous obeisance. "Your hypothesis is an interesting one, Doctor."

"You really think so," McCoy's blue eyes widened in suspicious disbelief.

"Indeed." The First Officer appeared to consider for a moment before he continued aloofly, "It is quite fatuous, however. As you are constantly pointing out, I am not Human. Therefore, the premise does not apply in my case. Nor am I 'in love', as you so quaintly phrase the matter - with the Captain or anyone else. As a Vulcan I cannot… respond… in that way."

"That's bullshit and you know it." McCoy's lips pursed sceptically, "God willing, it'll be the first and last time, but if you recall, not only have you been on the inside of my brain but I had the full tour of yours. I know how you feel about Jim."

Spock froze into immobility. His dark eyes focused directly on McCoy. They pulled the doctor in, surrounded him, and held him in thrall, a mesmerized baby leveret just before the cobra's fatal strike.

Spock deliberately held eye contact, his resemblance to Earth's legendary Fallen Angel suddenly quite distinct, "This is not a topic for discussion, Doctor."

Caught by the First Officer's abruptly hypnotic stare, unable to look away, McCoy felt his heart congeal. For an interminable time, an eternity, he remained transfixed, rooted to the ground, powerless to move. He stayed that way until Spock's sallow lids dropped over eyes abnormally merciless. Promptly released, McCoy found he could breathe again. The _feinburger _dropped from his nerveless fingers. He stumbled back against the shuttle's fuselage in shock, unsure of what had just happened.

Spock bent deftly, picked up the remote sensor, and held it out as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, "Doctor, I have always held the conviction that Humans are at liberty to act illogically if they so wish. However, you are abusing the privilege. I suggest that if you are without employment you offer your services to Engineer Scott. I understand he has gone down to the river. I certainly do not require assistance and I would regard it a particular kindness if you returned to whatever occupation physicians engage in when they have no use for their leeches, rattles and beads…"

6


	2. Chapter 2

Eye of the Hurricane

Chapter Two:

There is no hiding in the dark

From the beating of my heart,

It is getting louder----

An hour later Spock ducked his head out from the cramped workspace of the shuttle's central processing control unit. A weary sigh of dissatisfaction escaped his control as the stuttering instrumentation flashed, spluttered a few bright sparks, and finally died; followed swiftly by the flickering illumination within the cabin. The sudden lack of power and the acrid smell of burned circuitry told its own story. He pushed himself slowly up off the floor; knees stiff with the bitter chill, unable to feel his toes any longer even with the protection of boots and two pairs of thermal socks. An obscure change in the light and the absence of any signs of activity from his shipmates abruptly impacted his consciousness. Preoccupied both by the work in hand and his troubled, distracted thoughts, he had failed to notice when the sounds from outside faded into silence.

"Mr. Scott?"

The First Officer paced over to the hatchway left propped half open and stared out onto a changed world. While he had been at work, the snow had started to fall. The flakes were elusive. Delicate, miniature ornamental sculptures, swiftly descended from the darkening sky. One outsized particle landed upon the exposed flesh of his wrist between glove and sleeve. Spock watched, fascinated, as it quickly melted, thawed, and evaporated almost instantly by the heat of his skin.

It was not his first experience of the enthralling climatic marvel but the previous instances had been so rare that he still found the occurrence unusual. The splendour of the thickly whirling flakes almost made him forget his discomfort - almost. He shivered, stamping his numb feet in an effort to restore the circulation. Like all of his species, Spock was acutely sensitive to the cold. Although he had some control over his metabolism, it took energy to regulate the complex systems of his body, energy he now had to conserve. Consequently, the twin menaces of hypothermia and frostbite were hazards he could not ignore with impunity. Again, he called out into the hushed silence of the pearlescent radiance. "Doctor McCoy?"

The crackling and spitting of the banked fire within its circle of large stones was his only answer. Otherwise, the clearing remained silent, vacant.

As quickly as his frozen toes would allow, he crossed over to the emergency shelter, a marvel of modern engineering, now fully unfolded into a five metre hemisphere with windows, an insulated floor, six inflatable bunks, and an integrated airlock. The bivouac, properly anchored, could withstand a blizzard or a whole herd of angry mammoths. Its effectiveness had been tested in jungles, lunar wastes, deserts, and even under water. Chekov and Scott had already drilled the secure housings for the twelve tritanium steel pitons that would fasten the shelter to the ground, a tough, physically taxing activity with the ground as hard as it was. The First Officer peered into the darkened interior, already knowing that he would find no one. "Ensign Chekov? Captain?"

Humans in general had a penchant for what they termed practical jokes and Doctor McCoy in particular had a significant affinity for such disconcerting pranks. Spock had proved an ideal focus for them on a number of occasions and now the Chief Surgeon had a definite score to settle. Spock inhaled sharply. He acknowledged that he had frightened the good doctor earlier and with explicit intent; or, more specifically, that other, darker, component of his personality had taken upon itself the authority to silence McCoy's insolent, injudicious ramblings.

Despite the doctor's reassurances that he had fully recovered from the neural damage suffered when his senceiver unit had malfunctioned, the First Officer recognised that his control over his emotions – both Human and Vulcan – had deteriorated considerably since returning from _Sassandran_.

He stared into the dusky shadows of the densely swirling snow that even his well-developed night sight could no longer penetrate. His fellow officer's could be only feet away and he would never know it.

_They are mocking thee_. The Whisperer's malevolent voice declared within his mind. _Why do thee suffer such contempt? These Tehr'ns are inferior beings hardly out of the trees in which they evolved. Always poking and prying, interfering where they are least wanted---_

Spock silenced _Tyr'al'tep's_ inner refrain by calling out softly into the darkness. "Captain Kirk? Doctor McCoy? Answer me if you are able."

_Foolish child. Will thee continue to deny what thee knows for truth?_

His alter ego, that primitive, elemental part of him, first released by the Klingons brutal treatment, in recent weeks had begun to wage an incessant war for supremacy with his normal persona.

_Can thee not recognise Human disrespect after so many years amongst them?_

Teeth clenched, Spock smacked his palm against the side of the shelter as sudden anger turned molten. _Enough. Be still. I will not listen._

But all his conceited belief in the Vulcan disciplines, established since early childhood, proved futile against that unbound, subliminal force.

Unable to keep Kirk from his thoughts, his mind filled with sudden hopeless longing, a sharp and bitter loneliness. Before, it had always been formless and he could never pin it down, but now _Tyr'al'tep,_ the Merciless, that demon-voiced god that lived deep within the psyche of every Vulcan, whispered of desires that no modern day _Vulkhanir _might entertain. If he needed proof of his disintegrating control, the shocking emotional behaviour displayed with his Captain was verification enough.

Spock threw back his head in a silent cry of anguish, the soft ice crystals falling unheeded upon his upturned face. With eyes scrunched shut, his fingers balled into fists, he tried to stifle the memories that _Tyr'al'tep _disclosed to him; memories of Jim Kirk's lips pressed against his own, amazingly tender, warm and gentle, yet a guarantee of strong and fearless passion

Nor would that devious inner presence allow him to disregard the sensation of wandering fingertips blazing a fiery trail down his spine, innocently stimulating the quiescent endocrine glands that lay just below the surface of his skin. Fortunately, for both of them, Kirk's sensitive caress had not possessed the necessary intensity to trigger production of the exact androgen that might have induced his retracted genitals to descend. That physical change prepared the body for mating; a procedure that only naturally occurred during pon-farr, the Vulcan seven-yearly reproductive urge.

The silver-tongued spirit further incited him, _Take the Tehr'n; use him for thy pleasure, if thee will, for the victor takes the spoils. That is thy ancient right. But do not deceive thyself into the belief that this immodest creature can douse the fires within. He cannot. Only one from Ti-Valka'ain can ease that burning - at the proper time. Thee knows this is so, child._

Spock kneaded his eyes with the heels of his hands. He consciously relaxed the taut muscles of his shoulders, neck, and jaw, but ashamed of his continued depravity still remained incapable of putting Kirk's poignant torture out of his mind.

_I have lost control_, he thought with bitter, derisive contempt.

_No_, the inner presence amended with ironic scorn; _Thee has given up control. Thee enjoyed thy Captain's kiss, found pleasure in his touch._

Spock acknowledged _Tyr'al'tep's_ appraisal. Swept away by a frenzied whirlwind of emotion, cognisant of the need to locate the eye of the hurricane, the calm centre within Abandon's raging storm, he had, nonetheless, found it impossible to cut the ties that bound him to Kirk and the Enterprise. When Kirk had called a premature halt to their lovemaking, he had been inwardly distraught. Moreover, if he were truly honest he hungered to complete the experience, to repeat those sensations that his Captain had so ably aroused in him.

When he had half-heartedly proffered his reassignment request, Kirk had declared him a coward, accused him of running away. He had refuted the charge but, with the lucidity of hindsight, he saw connections between his current dilemma and the one he had faced as a youth.

_Instead of staying on Vulcan and proving myself as A'nirih wished, I fled like a craven child. Was my reasoning flawed, my belief mistaken? Did I cling to the idea that I could isolate my Human half, become a true Vulcan, because of the inability to face up to reality? _

Certainly, it seemed that mingling with Humans for so long had only accentuated the strength of that part of his nature.

_The weakness that made thee run from thy destiny on Vulkhanir has now prevented thee taking leave of this upstart Human. Thee lie both to thyself and the Human physician. Thy aloofness is patently untrue. Thee pretends indifference when in fact thee desires the Human's friendship, his closeness, his -- intimacy._

Spock could not deny _Tyr'al'tep's_ interpretation. Increasingly, that perception had thrust him into black depths filled with both terror and desire, where anxiety and need dwelled together. Everything he tried failed to ease the yearning. Work, sleep, meditation, even the long, lonely hours of furious, physical exercise he initiated, could not assuage the terrible need within; his body cried out for Jim's _lips,_ Jim's _warmth_, Jim's _touch _–

He had become an animal, mindless, primitive, overcome by passions his ancestors had cast out three thousand years before and however much he consciously denied the inference, that insinuating voice inside his head singled Kirk out as the individual responsible for his fall from grace.

Putting the blame entirely upon his Captain's shoulders was ridiculous, he readily acknowledged in his more lucid moments, especially when Kirk had shown him only total understanding and kindness, but his wavering, uncertain logic found it impossible to resolve the quandary in any other way. He remained lost, confused, still stumbling blindly in the dark as if his sight had never been restored. Whether he left Jim Kirk's side or whether he stayed, in either case, everything he believed in and trusted appeared on the verge of destruction.

That was until destiny took a somewhat precipitous hand in the matter and the decision was no longer his to make.

Their latest mission had been routine, as so many missions were. A simple concern of transporting and setting up cold weather survival gear on a barely habitable planet where a small, but influential, archaeological dig was under way. _D'era_ orbited _Ket'cheleb_ an F5 star on the outreaches of the borders between Vulcan and Andorian space, a turbulent region well known for its violent plasma storms. While the Enterprise travelled onto recreational facilities at Starbase 9, Kirk had personally chosen to command _Copernicus _with a small, handpicked party of specialists. Halfway to their destination with the ship out of communication, a storm of ferocious intensity had hit the small craft striking from out of nowhere and sweeping them off into the unknown.

_Kaiidth._ _What was, was_. However, as he had informed McCoy, even with the extra environmental clothing, shelter, and rations the shuttle still fortuitously contained, their chances of survival on this nameless world was finite. They would all die within a matter of weeks, possibly a few months at best, unless rescued.

Unexpectedly, Spock's communicator chirruped for attention. For a second or two, he actually deliberated on whether to answer it or not. Then commonsense prevailed. He snapped the case open and spoke into the grid. Voice calm, Spock minimized his growing resentment, "Spock, here."

"Hey, Spock, the zoo called. You were due back at six. They want to know where you are." It was indisputably the voice of Doctor McCoy.

"Thank you, Doctor." Spock smoothly veiled his irritation. "May I enquire where you are and if the others are with you?"

"Yeah, you can enquire." There was a pause; a subdued conversation and then Kirk's voice replaced that of McCoy.

"Spock, we're on the hillside above the river. Scotty found a hot spring down here. I'd like you to join us."

Beneath the makeshift headband, Spock's eyebrow elevated. He understood perfectly that it was not a request. Kirk ordered him to attend.

"Very well, Captain." He snapped the case shut without another word, cutting off anything further that Kirk might have said.

On the journey down to the watercourse, he berated that insult. _I am irrational. I must regain dominance over this rampant emotionalism or go insane._

_Tyr'al'tep's_ sardonic hilarity resonated through his mind.

The deepening snow crunched and squeaked beneath Spock's boot soles as he pushed through the skeletal plant-life. Although cold before, the temperature dipped harshly to sub-zero as he left the trees behind and reached the open hillside. The knife edged wind whipped ice flakes under his hood, scorching the raw skin of his chin and cheeks, exacerbating his sore lips, cracked by the extreme cold.

Spock's eyes watered, irritated by the frigid air and the descending flurries. He narrowed his gaze against the precipitation, the protective tears even as they were shed freezing to his bottom lashes. He squinted into the blizzard trying to penetrate the heavy fall, planting his feet carefully as the soft snow shifted treacherously beneath his step.

Movement caught his eye, vague, shadowy, on the edge of vision. The snow conjured up pale ghosts, phantom reminders of another world, light-years away from this one. He shivered abruptly, chilled to the bone and wretched, unable to control either sensation.

An additional explanation for his recent mental turmoil stole furtively into his awareness, corroborating an understanding that he was in no fit state to acknowledge. Yet, the truth rose up from deep within his despondent soul, ominous and impatient, a Pandora's Box on the verge of breaking open. Too petrified to face the reality or heed the warning, he slammed the lid shut, locked and bolted it, then obstinately sought a distraction elsewhere. He did not have to look far to find one.

A sudden shift in the gloom, an undefined change in the shadowy darkness, invaded his preoccupation. He stopped walking, focused his attention, senses sharpening as his heartbeat slowed. He could smell the unfamiliar odour of fresh snow, the acrid smoke from the fire he had left burning in the camp. Ahead, the wind brought to his questing nostrils the harsh metallic tang of fast running water, the strong smell of hydrogen sulphide from the nearby hot springs, and a muted trace of something else, close by – the warm, pervasive odour of … wet fur. His preternatural hearing zeroed in on the faintest of sounds, the soft panting of breath, the accelerated thud of a heartbeat not his own, the yielding rustle of displaced snow as something took a wary step in his direction –

Immediately, Spock shifted his gaze to the left, a tingle creeping up his spine as the fine, sleek hairs on the back of his neck stiffened in a primal reaction. A pinkish moon, soaring high above the grey scudding cloud cover, chose that moment to fly free of the opaque haze. At the same time, the wind changed direction and for an instant, he looked down a shallow tunnel clear of any impeding snow into a pair of incandescent golden orbs shining with reflected light.

The eyes that stared fixedly back at him were oblique with dark brows and thick lashes of the same colour, the face female, markedly feline with a short, flat nose. She had a thin lipped, generous mouth above a prognathic jaw, the chin finely sculpted. Her body was slim and sinewy, the breasts hardly more than those of a juvenile. Pointed, mobile ears lay flat against an elongated skull covered in downy fur, bedraggled and drenched from the snow. She crouched low on narrow haunches, lips flared in a spitting snarl that revealed startlingly pointed incisors. A long striped tail flicked wildly an inch or two clear of the snowfall.

Taken by surprise, Spock froze into stillness, just as the capricious wind changed direction once more. The stinging ice particles pelted into his face again, almost blinding him. When he looked back at the area where the felinoid crouched, she had disappeared.

He brushed the snow hurriedly from his eyes, stooped down. Clearly marked in the thickening snowfall was the outline of a bare foot. Although it possessed five digits the same as his own, the sole tapered long and narrow, while the toes were shorter, cushioned with broad pads like those of an animal. Blurry footprints led unerringly down towards a great mass of stone, tumbled ruddy chunks, blanketed now in white. On the other side of that barrier, the sounds of splashing and male laughter came clearly to his ears

7


	3. Chapter 3

Eye of the Hurricane

Chapter 3

United we stand,

Divided we fall,

And if our backs should ever be against the wall,

We'll be together, you and I.

Along with the automated perimeter alarm system, Mr. Scott had set up a couple of the small portable lights from the shuttle's purloined cargo. The glowing beams cast strange shadows through the steam that swirled upward, melting the falling snow before it had chance to reach the aerated, opalescent water.

Spock passed through unseen, unfelt radiation that scanned him and allowed him to pass unannounced by the scream of a warning klaxon. He swallowed thickly as the stench of bad eggs from the mineral deposits assaulted his sensitive nostrils and took away his breath. Yet, the dank heat drew him forward almost to the waters edge.

He stood upon a great slab of weathered limestone extending out into a lake that had formed atop a wide, dish-shaped highland, the hillside falling away in broad curved ridges for two hundred feet or so below it. Thermal spring waters, laden with calcareous salts, tumbled off the plateau's edge creating an incredible formation of stalactites, cataracts and deep basins, a wonderland of rusty, brown-stone water terraces, diminishing in giant steps to the distantly rushing river far beneath.

In the wide pool four feet below Spock's perch, the other members of the team happily malingered, revelling in their good fortune. Hunkering down on his heels beside the discarded piles of clothing, his deadened toes over the brink, Spock thrust back his hood, angular face solemn as he watched his shipmates at play.

McCoy, floating languidly on his back, naked as the day he was born, spotted him first. "Hey, Spock, finally made it, huh?"

"Indeed." Spock answered shortly.

"Solitude hasn't improved your sense of humour, I guess. I see you've still got that _bad smell_ under your nose – or maybe you're jealous."

"Jealous, Doctor? Of what, may I enquire?"

"At this vision of fine-looking, red-blooded, manhood you see before you, of course. What else?"

"Beauty is found in the eye of the beholder I believe, Doctor McCoy." Spock's vaporous breath mingled with the steam that rose about him. "I see only a naked ape inappropriately self-named _Homo sapiens_. If I may say so, from this vantage point, the sight is certainly not an inspiring one."

Treading water a short distance away, Kirk hid his smile. Whatever dark trials and tribulations Spock wrestled within, it had certainly not dimmed his talent for crossing verbal swords with McCoy. He watched in silent amusement as Bones readied for battle, brow wrinkled, and jaw squared.

"While it breaks my heart to say it, for once I have to agree, Spock. True attractiveness comes from within. Although…to know you better is to dislike you more."

Spock inclined his head. "A sage may perceive a different tree from that observed by a fool, Doctor McCoy."

"That's just another one of those god-damned awful Vulcan platitudes. Call a _feinburger_ a _feinburger_ and have done with it."

"On the contrary, I have merely paraphrased one of your Terran poets, an 18th century Englishman by the name of William Blake."

"Well, that explains it," McCoy persisted undaunted. "Everybody knows that the English are distaff cousins of the Vulcans."

That raised a general guffaw but Spock remained unruffled. "Some of my mother's ancestors were English, Doctor."

"There you go. What did I tell you?"

Chekov twisted fluidly in the hot water, sinuous as an otter, and drifted closer. "Vill you join us, Mr. Spock? You vill enjoy it. Ve hev many such springs in Wussia. They are wery relaxing at the end of a … challenging day."

The rising steam held a certain appeal for Spock but thought of removing all his clothes in the glacial setting and immersing himself up to his neck in water that smelled so strongly and unpleasantly sulphurous made him inwardly shudder_. _

_I would sooner appear naked on the recreation deck before the assembled crew of the Enterprise,_ he thought earnestly. "I… think not, Ensign."

"Now, if I might say so, that's a tad illogical, Spock. Out of all of us, your ability to withstand the cold is the least, and it's a damn sight warmer in here than out there." McCoy interrupted acidly. "Is this reluctance to join us due to false modesty - or are you just chicken?"

McCoy, apart from Kirk, was probably the only one aboard ship who was aware of the Vulcan's aversion, his almost cat-like distaste of getting wet. Although a general requirement of Starfleet that all its personnel learn how to swim to some degree, if he could evade the obligation at all, the First Officer most certainly did his best.

Scotty gasped in shock. "Doctor McCoy. Really, tha's uncalled fur --"

Genuinely perplexed, Spock asked, "Chicken, Doctor McCoy?"

He could not quite equate a common, Terran domestic fowl either with his intolerance of the cold, the malodorous water, or Scott's appalled reaction.

"Yeah, chicken." McCoy continued, unrepentant. "Lilley-liver, yellow-belly, _fraidy cat_. In other words, a coward, Spock."

Spock stared at McCoy from behind his mask, then rose unhurriedly to his feet, dark eyes seemingly composed and untroubled, yet Kirk received a distinct impression that the First Officer had inwardly flinched.

_Damn, damn, damn_. He swore silently as he recalled his own words in Spock's cabin only a few weeks ago, saying exactly the same thing.

You can't run from this and hope it will go away, he had told his First Officer. I never took you for a coward. We have to work this out - the both of us.

Clearly, Spock had not forgotten or, maybe, he thought with sudden insight, McCoy's words had only recalled some other painful memory for his First Officer.

"Bones, it's Mr. Spock's choice if he wants to swim or not." Kirk's words were a command, but McCoy, in his own way, was just as obstinate as the Vulcan when he felt so inclined. He would continue to snipe until he achieved a result, whatever that result might be. However, although McCoy's carping came more from a hope to stimulate an emotional response, a way to reach the Vulcan's concealed Human side, and not necessarily from a desire to hurt, goading Spock in his present frame of mind could have unforeseen consequences. Kirk did not want his officers at each other's throats; their situation was perilous enough as it was. He outfaced McCoy, meeting the chill blue gaze unwaveringly until the doctor at least had the good grace to look sheepish.

"Alright, alright. That was out of line, I admit it. Maybe he is just shy." Despite the apology, McCoy's voice sounded scornful, not conciliatory. "One thing's for sure though, I'm not gonna be the one sitting next to him at supper."

To add emphasis to his words, he held his nose, pulled a face, and slowly sank beneath the steaming water.

Kirk rolled his eyes skyward in silent forbearing before meeting Spock's impenetrable gaze. "Sticks and stones may break our bones but calling wounds the soul, huh, Spock?"

"If I understand Doctor McCoy correctly, he seems to be insinuating that not only am I an aquaphobe but that I have also developed a … difficulty… with personal hygiene, sir."

Kirk paddled water. The Vulcan's skin had a natural scent reminiscent of cinnamon, usually a faint if distinct fragrance. Now, probably due to the rigour of the day's events, that delicate aroma had intensified, grown stronger, and more piquant. Unlike the smell of stale Human sweat, Kirk found the hot, spicy odour anything but offensive. In fact, the pheromones proved a potent stimulant, one that his body did not wish to ignore. "Forget it, Spock. Bones is just doing his usual grouch impression. He hasn't managed to get over the fact that we forgot to pack the Saurian brandy."

He lowered his voice, confident only Spock could hear him, "And anyway, I love the way you smell --"

Spock's Adams apple bobbed surreptitiously at the remark but he folded his arms across his lean chest as if unmoved by Kirk's efforts to mollify him. "None-the-less, Doctor McCoy's allegations are unfounded, Captain. In this environment there is undoubtedly a bed of hot sand nearby that I may use to refresh myself --"

"Of course," Kirk extended a wet hand up to his First Officer, an unspoken request for assistance out of the water. "You have something to report, Mr. Spock."

Kirk did not miss the fleeting hesitation before the Vulcan pulled off his gloves, knelt once more, and bent to grip his wrist, hauling him effortlessly onto the jetty-like slab of limestone. At that touch, he felt a shockwave enter through his skin, straight into his bloodstream. Spock let go immediately, stepping back from his advance for, like McCoy and the rest, Kirk had gone swimming in the nude.

"Affirmative, Captain."

A puckish smile tugged at Kirk's lips in ironic appreciation, hazel eyes warming with affection as he thoughtfully regarded his bashful friend. To spare Spock further discomfort, shivering at the change in temperature, he picked up his thermal undershirt, dried himself off fast, and pulled on his under shorts.

Although Kirk, like Bones, felt rejected by the Vulcan's sudden cool impassiveness he could still empathize with Spock's obvious confusion, the need to distance himself from what he perceived as an embarrassing and humiliating situation. The manner, in which the Vulcan accomplished that objective, however, struck him as naïve and unsophisticated, a little like that of an indignant adolescent reacting to an unjust world.

The First Officer had fought since the age of seven for mastery over his most fundamental passions, an especially difficult accomplishment since he not only had to suppress his Vulcan anima but also those 'inappropriate' Human qualities inherited from his mother.

To suddenly have to confront the awareness of a desire Spock had kept a deep dark secret even from his own conscious awareness had, Kirk realised, proved a painful shock. Nevertheless, when the First Officer had requested a transfer off the Enterprise, he had found the idea inconceivable. Contrary to Spock's analysis that Kirk would find his love repulsive, the Vulcan's deep-seated feelings had only crystallized Kirk's own subconscious longing.

Unlike his friend, Kirk felt no shame in openly confessing either his desire or his profound affection. He had always had an inimitable tolerance to sex in all of its various forms – and had tried out most of them over the years he had spent in space. His bed hopping was legendary, though vastly over exaggerated. Despite the fact that he had formerly indulged a preference for female company, he had few, if any, worries about either cross-species or cross-gender fraternizing. When first he heard the rumours via the Enterprises' all-talk channel, that he and Spock were supposedly a twosome, he had found the idea curiously arousing.

Spock, cruelly beset at the time with what they all assumed was an incurable blindness, had evidently remained completely ignorant of the conjecture – that is until he had returned off sick leave. Once he learned of the rumours, however, his natural propriety had reasserted itself. Kirk could estimate almost to the second when the First Officer encountered the gossip.

For the last sixty days both on board Enterprise and during their latest mission, Spock had been the very pillar of Vulcan rectitude. Every one of Kirk's solicitous overtures had met with the same well mannered, polite, but definitely unwelcoming response. It was as though that first shy exchange in Spock's quarters had never happened.

A gulf had opened up between them, a chasm that Spock would not permit him to bridge and which widened a little more at every passing day. The daily work out in the gym had stopped, along with the games of velocity, crucial for Kirk's sanity, sublimating his always-acute sexual tension into a form more socially acceptable within the enclosed environment aboard Enterprise. Moreover, Spock had curtailed their weekly games of chess, stating pressure of work as an excuse.

When the First Officer went as far as to request a move to the opposite duty watch to his own, he had only just contained his frustration and alarm. Unable to forget the joy he had stumbled upon, the realisation that a sleeping giant had awakened within him, to have the sudden radiance, the unlooked-for vibrancy, taken from him again by Spock's abrupt estrangement was almost more than he could bear. He had tempered the bizarre mixture of fear and excitement, amazement and desire in the belief that the Vulcan would eventually overcome his devastation, that they could find a solution to their joint problem together. In all his life, nothing had felt as good or as true or as natural. He had never felt so close to any other being, either male or female, as he did with Spock, had never encountered anything more right than that one caress they had so briefly shared.

Kirk looked covertly at his friend. What's that ancient legend, the one about the Gods splitting people into two halves to punish them? All of us search endlessly through life to find our other half. If chance favours us, we manage to locate it and become complete again. Since the halves come from both men and women, we're made up of heterosexual, homosexual, and bisexuals. Plato didn't know about extraterrestrials but if he had I bet there'd be a coda in there somewhere. Spock is the other half of me. He is my soul mate. I have to give him the time he needs to get used to the strength of these new feelings, a little extra space--

When he addressed the First officer once again, his voice was calm, though buffered by an edge of formality. "You mean you finally coaxed something out of the shuttle's computer."

"I -- have, sir."

As Kirk met his gaze, Spock's heart lurched unsteadily. It throbbed so hard he felt the pounding rhythm between his temples. A shivery tremor vibrated up his spine, an electric current that sizzled along overstretched nerves. The musky fragrance of Kirk's naked skin tantalized his nostrils even above the stink of the spring's mineral deposits.

Water droplets still beaded Kirk's fine, fair hair, spattered his bare shoulders with tiny rivulets of moisture. Spock watched as one small bead slid down his Captain's muscular chest until it came to rest atop the rosy nubbin of Kirk's right nipple. Unable to prevent himself, he imagined the feel of the firm bud of flesh between his lips, the salty taste of it upon his tongue.

For the first time since they had crashed, he felt heat gush through him from the inside out, a hot flood surging in a potent tide through belly and thighs. He gulped convulsively, throat constricting as he swallowed the sudden rush of saliva, his stomach muscles clenching low and tight. A pulse jerked in his throat as he tore his eyes away, concealing his agitation behind an expressionless façade to stare over Kirk's shoulder into the darkness, finding something eminently fascinating in the writhing steam.

"Although -- the primary circuits were severely damaged by the storm and subsequent crash-landing, there was enough residual power left for me to backtrack the shuttle's precipitous flight and -- approximate our present location."

"Approximate our location," McCoy called out from below them, not even trying to keep the crow out of his voice. "You mean it's a guess, Spock. Well, there's hope for you yet."

Flustered already by Kirk's nearness, McCoy's continued impertinence had Spock's dark eyes snapping with ill-concealed impatience. His lips tautened into an almost bloodless line as he regarded the still immersed doctor. "A scientific estimate, Doctor. Far from a guess I assure you."

"If you can't convince us, confuse us. Is that your motto?" McCoy muttered as he followed Kirk's lead and dragged himself reluctantly from the comforting warmth of the thermal waters.

"Knock it off, Bones! That's an order." Kirk admonished with a glare at his chief surgeon. He reached for his shirt, donned it swiftly. "Spock, please go on."

The Vulcan blinked at his Captain in distraction, his cheeks unusually flushed with verdant colour. Caught between Scylla and Charybdis, the devil and the deep, he not only had to face up to Kirk but also contend with McCoy's psychoanalysis of his every word and spontaneous response.

"Sir, I would request that we --- discuss the matter back at the encampment. As you may have noted, these pools are not an entirely natural formation." He consulted the tricorder slung across his lean shoulder without actually registering the information displayed there. "Although completed long ago, the underlying geological features have been undeniably enhanced --"

Kirk paused in the act of dragging his pants over his still damp thighs to look at his First Officer. "No -- I hadn't noticed that, Mr. Spock."

"You mean these pools aren't natural, that this is someone else's private hot tub we're using." McCoy demanded, gazing abruptly into the night at the whirling darkness, the heavily falling precipitation beyond.

Drawn against his will to watch Kirk finish dressing, blood heating even more than before, Spock's eyes hastily averted. Turning away from them both, he studied his tricorder, his grip tightening around the instrument's case in an effort to control his trembling fingers.

"Affirmative, Doctor." His normal light baritone rasped huskily in his throat and he swallowed hard, blaming the constriction there on the dampness, the stench that had his lungs struggling to draw sufficient breath. Belatedly he remembered the felinoid out on the hillside. Had she come here to bathe in peace and found alien intruders instead? Moreover, where had she disappeared? To fetch help from compatriots, perhaps? "In these arctic -- conditions, the springs would attract more than one life form. Certainly, this area could have special significance. Sir, we should return to the shuttle until we know more --"

McCoy cut in abruptly. "Jim, there's something out there. I just saw it move."

He pointed quickly into the snow-filled darkness, indicating a fleeting shadow just beyond the wavering glow of the lights. "There it goes again. See it?"

Almost at the same time, the automatic alarm started up in an ear-splitting banshee wail. Spock let the tricorder drop against his hip, caught from falling by its strap around his shoulder. He stepped protectively in front of Kirk and McCoy, reaching for his phaser. Instantly, something hard clattered against the ledge almost at his feet; a fist-sized rock with jagged edges –

He glanced up from it just as McCoy yelled a warning. "Look out, Spock --"

From the murky shadows, another projectile hurtled towards him, its encroachment too fast to duck safely aside despite McCoy's shouted alert and his own excellent reflexes. It thumped hard against his right thigh.

Seconds later a further rock, as large as the first, struck him vigorously on the forehead. He staggered back, dropping the phaser as the blood came in a hot mask. With his legs tangled in the piles of discarded clothing, he teetered unsteadily on the brink of the rock ledge.

"Spock!" Kirk pushed McCoy into the relative shelter of a small outcropping, and clutched hastily at his First Officer's arm.

Instantly a fresh barrage of stones and small rocks assailed them from out of the shadows, landing with absolute precision. One caught Kirk on the hand, numbing the fingers that held onto the Vulcan's sleeve. Another struck Spock low down on the left side, just below the heart. Stunned, blinded with his own lifeblood, the force of the blow sent him sprawling backwards.

His sleeve tore loose from Kirk's weakened grip as he fell, arms flailing uselessly. He hit the lake surface hard, sank like a stone, dragged down by the density of his own muscle and bone formed on a world with a much higher gravity. The bubbling water, thin and insipid compared to the turgid seas of Vulcan, failed to support his weight.

Kirk followed instantly. He sliced through the hot waters of the thermal spring, unable to forget the blood on Spock's face, the gaping wound on his friend's brow. He kicked hard, only just able to see in the cloudy opalescence, strong crosscurrents tearing at him, sweeping upwards from the volcanic rift, holding him back as he struggled to reach his injured First Officer. With a tremendous effort, his groping, outstretched hand at last brushed Spock's scalp. He grabbed blindly at a clump of undulating hair but the wet strands were too short, too fine, they slipped through his straining fingers. Eyes burning, lips stinging from the mineral-rich water, he dove after Spock's lifeless, rapidly descending form. Kirk grasped wildly at the floating edge of the Vulcan's jacket hood, awash with abrupt relief as he managed to catch hold of it and hang on.

Yet, despite his physical fitness and natural proficiency as a swimmer, the Vulcan's dead weight, along with the swift flowing currents, and the violent upsurge from the pool's substructure, prevented their return to the surface. Kirk thrashed his feet, struggled to stop their downward rush, his heart thundering, air nearly exhausted. But Spock was just too heavy. Instead of ascending, they plunged further beneath the roiling water. Kirk's pulses throbbed; a crimson mist blurred his sight as unconsciousness beckoned to him.

Spock, he cried within his mind, fervent with terror. Help me, damn you. Spock, do you hear me? I can't do this on my own. You have to help me—

Spock's eyes were open though the lids drooped, hooding pupil and iris dulled by the inner nictitating membrane, the transparent film that would normally have protected his sight from the harsh desert conditions on Vulcan. He stared back at Kirk, dark brows drawn together in a frown, dazed by the blow on the head, unable to fully comprehend their mutual danger.

The red curtain before Kirk's eyes intensified. The blood boomed through his temples. He fought the urge to breathe, to suck non-existent air into his straining lungs, defying the instinctive drive for self-preservation that demanded he let go of the unresponsive Vulcan.

Spock, please --- But it was obvious that even if Spock could hear his agonised appeal he could not understand it.

Spppocckk ---! Kirk screamed feverishly, trying to punch through the opaque barrier that prevented him from reaching his Vulcan friend. But Spock stared through him without the least flicker of recognition. At last, in despair and frustrated anger Kirk acknowledged the truth, the reality that his attempt at rescue accomplished nothing. Inwardly flinching, with no other choice open to him, he released his grip on Spock's hood. In the midst of a stomach-churning burst of fear, his mind and body flooded with anguish, he twisted in the water and shot arrow swift for the surface intent on fetching help.

Spock stared after Kirk's retreating form in bewilderment, his Captain's terror abruptly piercing his inner darkness.

Unlike the haemoglobin of his Captain's circulatory system, the specialisation of copper based blood cells and superior lung structure enabled Spock to survive under water for several minutes longer than any Human. The Vulcan epidermis was also distinct from any other in the galaxy. It formed a two-way moisture proof shield that protected the First Officer from external liquid and pressure while maintaining the inner temperature and environment of his internal organs.

Jim, he uncertainly answered the call within his mind. Jim?

But Kirk did not turn back or acknowledge his inward cry. For a moment longer, he floundered in the milky depths, the wild, warm turbulence that swung him, rolled him, and tugged him deeper. Then, with jerky, erratic movements he somehow tore free of the tricorder strap and the restraining coat he wore. Caustic water filled his eyes, filled his nose and mouth, and Tyr'al'tep, the Unforgiving, once again whispered malice into his ears.

Thy t'hy'la has abandoned thee. The voice murmured bitterly. See, how he saves his own life and leaves thee to die in this appalling substance. Is this the love unbound of which Tehr'n's speak so highly?

His time sense had deserted him and weeks, months, years seemed to pass before he burst through the watery barrier gasping and whooping, hair plastered over the gaping wound on his brow, the used air exploding out of him in a stream of shimmering bubbles. He flailed and kicked desperate to stay afloat. The blood roared in his ears, a thundering tumult as he thrashed wildly, breathing only foam. He tumbled again, head over heels, caught in the swift downward pull of a savage undertow that swept him unerringly towards a powerful cataract on the far side of the lake. Emerald stars exploded at the edge of vision as the charging waterfall dragged him, barking like a seal, and retching, relentlessly over the extreme rim of the basin.

The First Officer's ears rang as oblivion drew him in with a seductive power. He fought that influence with all the strength he still possessed; twisting in the plummeting water as he felt himself carried head first over the basin's stony lip. Almost instinctively, he dug his fingers into the cracked and fissured sedimentary rock, clung frantically as the current carried him with it over the falls.

His whole weight hung by the few fingers he managed to cram into the slight depression. The fast moving torrent plunged over and around him, dashing into his face. It burned in his throat and lungs. Spock coughed and choked unable to draw breath. He could see nothing, hear nothing except for the rush and pound of water against his face and shoulders and chest. Thirty feet beneath his dangling feet the cataract fumed and churned in the rock pool below.

He had grown up in the desert city of ShiKahr close to the black granite Arlanga mountain range. As a boy, he had climbed those mountains for his own fulfilment and self-esteem. Even dazed by blood loss and breathless from saturated lungs, the feel of rock beneath his fingertips brought all his old knowledge flooding back. He clung with a limpet's tenacity to the stone. Somehow, he had lost his left boot and he scrabbled frantically with his toes for extra purchase in a shallow crevice. Fingers rigid, the nails torn and bloody, he hugged the cliff side with desperate urgency while he searched for more reliable support. He pressed against the slickness of wet rock, slimed with brilliantly hued algae, managed to snatch a wheezing breath. Then his toehold gave way. His fingers tore from their grip, leaving fresh green streaks behind as he slipped down the rock face. While he managed to grab a further projection with both hands ten feet below and hang on fleetingly, that outcropping gave way, too. He plunged the last twenty feet; hit the water broadside on, his spine taking most of the shock.

Traumatized by the fall, only half conscious, the water took him once more. It spun him around and swept him from pool to pool with increasing speed and ferocity until finally decanting him in the fast flowing tidal river two hundred feet below.

The change in temperature jolted him back to life. Unlike the volcanically heated pool water, the river came direct from the snow bound mountaintops, awash with various debris and wreckage dragged in by the waters tumultuous course. He wallowed in the swiftly moving tributary, sank beneath the surface, touched the stony bottom with his feet and thrust upwards with what little energy he still retained. A rock came careering out of the darkness. Spock reached for the rough façade, managed to cling for a brief second or two before the river sucked him back into its cold embrace, like a lover reluctant to let him go. Again, he grazed rock, caromed off it, somersaulted, and came up scarcely breathing.

The next time under, something hard nudged him in the ribs, scraped painfully down his side, ripping his shirt and the skin beneath. It was a length of tree trunk, waterlogged, and partly submerged. He grasped it, hung on; his torn finger ends biting into the sodden wood. With his last ounce of strength, he somehow managed to drag his bruised and battered body further over the limb, straddling it with his thighs. Barely alive, exhausted, too cold, and wet even to shiver, he finally gave up the struggle and let the dark night, the rushing river, take him where they would.

12


	4. Chapter 4

Eye of the Hurricane

Chapter 4

Leave a light on, leave a light on; help me find a way back.

Keep it shining and I'll be along, there's only one place in this world I belong.

So, keep a light on, keep it burning as long as it takes…

O0o

The felinoid shrieked and jumped. McCoy, still gaping at the opaque ripples in the pool where Jim had just dived in after Spock saw, only the slanted yellow eyes glaring at him from out of a triangular face, the glint of lengthy incisors, before he managed to leap away in the glow of the portable lights.

With an amazing swiftness, the creature whirled after him, retractable claws extended. It was McCoy's turn to shriek as the creature's talons raked his exposed back. Abrupt fire licked from shoulder to flank. Although a doctor and not a soldier - as he would be the first to point out - McCoy had a healthy regard for his own self-preservation. He had beamed down on too many away missions not to keep up with the basics of self-defence. The abrupt attack had taken him by surprise, but as the pain flared the length of his spine, the instinctive urge to safeguard his personal existence had him twisting on his heel, ready to confront his assailant.

It was a male, as naked as McCoy apart from a green crystal pendant hanging from its neck and a thin strip of tanned leather about its loins. A head and a half shorter than McCoy, its body had a lithe, gawky look to it. Nor was there any mistaking its intentions or the pissed off expression on its long, flat face. Mobile ears lay back along the elongate skull, the luminous eyes bright with intelligence, it crouched before him, long fingered hands raised, claws out.

"Hey there, fella." While McCoy still fully appreciated his vulnerability, he heard himself drawl in the languid southern accents of his youth, "I apologise if we've dirtied your bath water. Perhaps there's somethin' my friends and I can do to make amends."

In reply, the felinoid's thin lips peeled back from the awesome fangs in a silent snarl. Then, before McCoy could say anything more, it pounced.

The hurtling, supple body took him chest high but McCoy resisted the blow, throwing his own weight against his antagonist, using his extra reach and greater height to keep the needle-like claws and sharp incisors from tearing at his defenceless flesh. The strength of the male felinoid was incredible. They wrestled back and forth across the bare rock outcropping, the scattered clothing tangling McCoy's ankles, the strong spicy scent of the creature's excitement filling the chilly air.

"_Scotty! Chekovvv!"_ McCoy screamed as another wild slash connected. The skin alongside his breastbone ripped in five long, thin stripes. "Help me—help…"

As McCoy's blood welled thickly along the shallow gashes, a salty, coppery smell erupted into the cold air. Spurred into renewed effort by the alien scent, the felinoid worried at his shoulder, snuffling and growling, trying for McCoy's throat, his jugular. With tangible relief, McCoy glimpsed Chekov silently emerge from the water, steam billowing up as the cold air met the warmth of the boy's wet skin. At the same time, the Chief Engineer also levered himself awkwardly onto dry land.

"_Thank God_." Renewed hope stirred in McCoy at sight of his shipmates. Finding a sudden, impulsive strength, he pushed hard, his hands on the creature's thin, wiry shoulders. The bones concealed beneath soft, damp fur, though strong were slight – and finally he broke free.

Acting on instinct alone, McCoy jumped clear of the rending teeth, the slashing talons. He smashed the heel of his palm up against the male's flat nose as hard as he could manage. The creature yowled in outrage, lunged at him, its temper flaring; obviously deciding that playtime was over. In desperation, McCoy stabbed it in the eye with his outstretched index finger, followed the move by clapping the flat of both his hands over the felinoid's pointed ears.

_That just had to hurt!_ McCoy's heart pounded, his palms stung with the force of the blow. The creature staggered back from him, long-fingered hands clasped protectively over its ears. It blinked in pain and anguish. Scotty grabbed it quickly, twisted supple arms up behind the slender back. It screeched something at them, twisting and fighting in Scotty's grip until Chekov managed to get a further hold, with an arm wound around the creature's throat.

McCoy's implanted senceiver struggled to translate the garbled spitting and snarling with only limited success. Yet within his mind, words rang clear, strange words, alien words – but somehow vaguely familiar, in a tongue his brain thought it knew.

He had little time to puzzle out the ambiguity. From out of the darkness, as if responding to the squalling cries of the original felinoid, another menacing shape burst into the wavering light. Much taller than the first, with an adult's sturdy musculature, it knocked McCoy aside and vaulted effortlessly onto Chekov's back, clinging to his shoulders. Vicious fangs sank deep into the boy's nape. Driven to his knees by the fresh assault, Chekov cried out sharply in pain.

"_Chekov_!" Scott yelled loudly. McCoy saw the Chief Engineer let go of their original captive, intent on helping the boy who now fought for his life against the superior strength of the second felinoid. But even as Scotty reached to pull the creature off, the screaming klaxon fell silent, the portable lights went out, and the rock ledge was brimful with bounding, sinuous bodies.

It was only an instant before any number of hands took hold of McCoy and bore him down onto the ground as he futilely lashed out, kicking and punching.

"_Scotty_?" Sweat and blood soured McCoy's naked skin, tremors of fear shivered through him, as any moment he expected to be torn limb from limb.

"I'm still here, Doctor. _Dinnae fash y'sen_." The Chief Engineer's Celtic brogue came panting and none too steady out of the writhing darkness. "These wee beasties hae me trussed tighter than a virgin's …"

The abrupt grunt of surprise and the ensuing silence stilled McCoy's demented thrashing. "_Scotty_! _Scotty_, answer me, damnit."

Eyes wide, McCoy stared out into the darkness. "Chekov, what's happenin'? Where are you, boy? Are you hurt? What have they done to Scotty…?"

Then, before he could say anything more, something cold, and slimy like a lean slice of bloody meat, slapped over his mouth. McCoy gagged, then choked, as whatever it really was, slid between his lips and over his tongue.

McCoy's stomach turned over at the feel of it, the sensation of raw liver slithering down his throat. His scrotum tightened, tried to crawl up inside his body cavity as a panicked yell built inside his clogged windpipe. With everything to gain and nothing to lose, pig-headed to his last breath, he somehow wrestled free of the grasping hands. Ignoring the snarls, the furious growls, he rolled over onto his knees, and tore at his face. His reaching fingers found a dank, slippery membrane that stubbornly adhered to the flesh around his mouth, nose, and lower jaw.

Frantically, he tried to rip the offending caul away, felt the skin of his face drag along with it. The harder he pulled the tighter the membrane clung. Then, abruptly, it came unstuck. McCoy gasping with relief, inhaled sharply, and felt the remainder of the squishy substance slink between his open lips. The next instant, his hands were grabbed and tightly pinioned. He heaved and retched, lashed out at the crowding bodies within reach of his bare feet, desperate to get free so he could purge himself of the god-awful parasite that filled his mouth and was halfway down his gullet - until a fist, _or maybe a rock_, whacked him hard across the back of the head. Abruptly he crumpled, dazed by the blow. Overcome, unable to resist any longer, his ankles were trussed enthusiastically together. Sickened and aghast, he could do nothing to prevent whatever it was oozing the rest of the way down his throat.

He must have lost it for a time, for the next thing he knew, some sort of carrying pole was thrust through both sets of bonds, and he was hauled off the ground. The earth swung from side to side only inches beneath his lolling head as his captors took off at a jogging run carrying him with them into the darkness of the alien night.

4


	5. Chapter 5

Eye of the Hurricane

Chapter Five

If my heart had wings,

I would fly to you and lie beside you as you dream.

If my heart had wings…

o0o

Kirk breached the surface of the lake. He gasped air, a desperate cry already forming on his lips. "Chekov, Scotty… I need…"

Realisation hit him even as his voice tailed off into silence and his gut turned to ice. By no means had he forgotten the surprise attack on himself and his crew but his aborted rescue attempt of Spock had lasted only a couple of minutes, five at the most.

"Bones…?" The groan was barely above a whisper as he stared into a darkness relieved only by the glimmer of softly falling snow. His heart plummeted at the sight of the empty rock ledge where he, Spock and McCoy had stood such a short time before, the scatter of various clothing and broken equipment the sole indication that his crew had ever existed.

Eyes just above the water, Kirk anxiously searched the ledge and surrounding snow-covered banks for any sign of either his officers or the marauders who had harassed them. At first, he saw nothing except the densely packed shadows, and then the gloom lightened infinitesimally as his sight cleared.

Something shifted, slow, and lethargic; a low moan sounded nearby. Kirk instantly recognised the faint murmur of pain. With a few powerful strokes, he made it to the limestone ledge and dragged himself free of the water.

"Ensign Chekov?" Kirk helped the boy sit up, held him upright as Chekov wavered.

"Kepten, is it you?" His voice slurred, thick with pain. "Vhat happened? Vhy is it so dark?"

"Take it easy, Ensign." Kirk breathed in a lungful of cold air, tainted with a strong smell of blood. There was an ominous wet stain running down Chekov's naked chest. "You're hurt…"

Chekov's hand trembled as he touched the sodden patch. He shuddered at the stickiness beneath his fingertips. Then he gasped as memory returned, indignity for an instant restoring his former strength. "It vas one of the creatures, Kepten. It…bit me. It vanted to tear out my throat."

"Bit you? What kind of creature, Ensign?" Kirk repressed a shiver, his wet clothes steaming faintly as they clung to his body. His eyes probed the darkness warily, "We can't stay here; it's too open, too easy to attack. We have to get under cover."

The boy winced as his tentative fingers searched the skin beneath his own chin, tracing the ragged edges of torn flesh. His voice rose, tinged with hysteria. "A vild animal, Kepten. Ve did not stand a chance. There vas so many of them. They came out of novhere…"

He took a deep breath that unexpectedly turned into an anguished sob. "Oh, _God,_ sir – they took avay Doctor McCoy and Mister Scott. I could do nothing… there vere so many of them…"

"It's all right, Pavel. I understand." Kirk held him reassuringly about the shoulders. "But we have to get that wound seen to. You need to dress before you freeze to death, all right? Here, let me help…"

From the various clothing scattered about them Kirk managed to find Chekov's shirt, trousers, and boots but although the effort of dressing clearly exhausted him, the young ensign would only accept the minimum of assistance from his Captain. Kirk helped him on with a padded jacket before he shrugged thankfully into his own coat, fastening it against the frigid air.

"Can you get on your feet?"

"I think so…" Chekov took several deep breaths, finally staggered upright. He leaned heavily upon Kirk for support. Despite the clothes he now wore, tremors shivered through him.

_It's the shock. I have to get him back to shelter_ thought Kirk. _He's lost too much blood…_ He snaked a sturdy arm around Chekov's waist. "Come on, Ensign. Let's move it."

"Aye, Kepten."

They stumbled away from the water and into the bitter night. The snow fell in fat, feathery clumps; good cover against anything that might be watching, yet an impediment to their progress back to the encampment. The precipitation was cold and soft under their shuffling feet, inches thick, deadening sound. In the cloud muffled moonlight, Kirk could see how fast the flakes were coming down. They melted on his skin and collected in his hair and lashes. He tasted the snow on his lips, cold and clean, while a chill intensified around his heart that had nothing to do with the wintry conditions. While Kirk found the going hard, it was infinitely tougher on Chekov. The boy staggered and lurched, relying on Kirk's strength to keep him upright. Kirk could hear the young Russian's wheezing breath; feel the tremors that increasingly shook him.

They rested once they reached the trees. Crouched in the meagre protection of the bare stems of a stunted bush Chekov roused a little. His eyes searched Kirk's face by the light of the pale moon, brow furrowed in puzzlement as if in sudden recollection, "Kepten, vhere is Mister Spock?"

Kirk had expected the question but it still made his throat tighten and his chest constrict. _Damn._ He blinked rapidly but despite all his efforts a single hot teardrop squeezed out between his lids to freeze instantaneously on the skin of his cheek.

He brushed the frozen droplet away with an impatient hand. "I … couldn't save him."

Kirk's voice faltered. He swallowed the saline tang of unshed tears; yet, he would not give in to the grief that threatened to swamp his control. Always in the past, he had found action an anodyne to either anxiety or heartache. Now he used his inner torment, the cold rage at what had happened here, to get Chekov on his feet, and moving once again. "Come on, Ensign. We can't stay here…"

"_Ya nye ponimayu_. I do not understand, Kepten. Ve cannot leave him." Chekov protested, as he huddled precariously against Kirk's side, right hand pressed against the ragged flesh of the pulsing wounds on his neck. The stench of his own hot blood filled his nostrils. He tried to break out of the shocked numbness that still held him in its grip, attempted to propose some line of action that would halt his Captain's perplexingly determined advance away from the thermal lake. The snow was falling heavily; the tracks left by the creatures that had attacked them would soon disappear beneath it. _He would not hide in safety while his shipmates were in peril._ His cold fingers clutched at Kirk's thick coat, dragged his commanding officer to a standstill by the sheer force of Russian obduracy. "Ve cannot know that he is dead, sir. Ve must look for him while there is still a chance…"

"_You're_ my first priority now, Ensign. You need medical treatment and soon or you'll bleed to death. I won't let that happen," Kirk's harsh voice was brittle with repressed emotion. "If Mr Spock heard you now, he'd point out how illogical you were being. Even if he recovered enough to swim to safety, without a working tricorder, we don't stand a hope in hell of finding him in all this. You saw what was left of McCoy's medical sensor. It's practically been trampled into the ground…"

"Kepten, it may not be logical, but it … is the … Human vay – to… to help a fallen comrade." Chekov murmured while the ground spun under him. "Ve cannot just…abandon him…"

He closed his eyes, clung to Kirk as his knees threatened to give way.

"I don't intend on abandoning any of my crew, Mr. Chekov." Kirk growled with unexpected terseness. He held Chekov by the shoulders, his fingers digging into the flesh there, before his grip relaxed and he continued a little more gently. "With the equipment back at the camp we'll have a better chance of finding everybody, including Spock. Now, if that's settled, Ensign…?"

Chekov nodded in reluctant agreement, and cried out in pain. At the movement, the flayed and swollen tissue once again pulled excruciatingly taut. He could barely raise his head. Despite the freezing air, his brow dripped with sweat.

Kirk caught Chekov as he started to fall, slung the boy's arm over his shoulder. "Come on, not much further now. You can make it. Just a few more steps…"

"_Da, spasbo_, Kepten," Chekov agreed in a whisper. Every muscle in his body seemed cramped into knots. He could no longer see through the sweat that dribbled into his eyes, yet he was abruptly cold; so cold, that he could not shake off the tremors that ravaged his aching limbs, and made his teeth chatter.

Kirk held onto Pavel as the boy slumped into unconsciousness. He knelt beside his young ensign and took his pulse. Its beat was faint, weakened by loss of blood and maybe the onset of infection on this world where the microorganisms took no Human prisoners. Once more, Kirk slipped an arm gently around Chekov's shoulders, another beneath his knees, and hauled him up like a sleeping child: a particularly heavy child. Kirk groaned at the weight, aware of his own sudden, devastating exhaustion. The strength drained out of him as if his veins had opened and the blood ran free. He shifted the precious burden closer to his chest, steadying himself in the treacherous snowfall as he rose to his feet. Then, without a backward glance, he proceeded to trudge through the concealing storm. He headed for the only place he could think of, the relative safety of their deserted camp.

O0o

_This is presently the last of the chapters while I try to finish off my other current W.I.P 'Ice and Fire'. Not that there's any reason why I can't work on this one when I am stuck on that! Thanks in advance for your patience. _

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